Fade
by manhattan-dreams
Summary: Dean is just back from hell and isn't going to try to live. But as he's staring down the barrel, a mysterious man in a trenchcoat shows up and takes him in his arms. Some slight mature themes, so rated M just in case.


**Ship: Destiel**

**Summary: Dean is just back from hell and isn't going to try to live. But as he's staring down the barrel, a mysterious man in a trenchcoat shows up and takes him in his arms. Some slight mature themes, so rated M just in case.**

**Type: One-Shot**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters mentioned below. Destiel belongs to the fans.**

**A/N: I know this needs polishing, especially for sentence fragments, but oh well. Enjoy and please review!**

**xx, manhattan-dreams**

He had been slipping, falling, hurting, and getting back up again his whole life. The bitter cold, the sting it sent through his body once he hit, tumbling and flying across that piece of ice known as depression, had finally gotten to the point where he couldn't take it.

Dean Winchester sat alone on the edge of a bed in a cheap motel room, his head in his hands, a loaded gun beside him. He wanted to scream, he wanted to shout to the heavens about how unfair it all was. If he killed himself would he go back to hell? Or not?

That was the one thought keeping him from picking up the gun and blowing his brains out right that moment. If he went back to hell, he had no idea what he would do. He was at this point for all of the people he tortured. He had felt the blood of the souls fall down on him as the bodies crumbled to pieces, leaving tiny splatters on his face and body. Allistair hadn't granted him clothing, food, comfort, and every evening he had gotten his own special form of torture, to remind him that he was still in hell.

Thoughts flashed through Dean's brain of the ugly man shoving him down to the ground, chaining him, cutting him, entering him. Screams begging him to stop. The tearing pain of something he didn't want. Tears, salty tears to go along with the salty taste of Allistair's sperm being forced down his throat.

Dean ran from the bed to the trash can, his dinner coming up at once. He lay on the floor, weeping but not crying, never crying. He couldn't cry. After a pathetic hour passed, the sounds of weakness and helplessness echoing through the walls, Dean stood up and went back to the bed.

Whatever had pulled him out of hell the night before wasn't normal. This was probably just one of Allistair's tricks, showing Dean that he would never be able to be normal after what had happened. But the high pitched noise in the store, the windows breaking, the handprint on his arm...

It still wasn't enough.

He picked up the gun, examining it, noting that the barrel would be the last thing he would see. The dirty, crawling feeling still pulsed through his veins. He'd a hope that it would have stopped, that there would be one moment of peace before it ended.

Taking one last deep breath and savoring it, Dean rested his finger on the trigger. He told himself to count to three and three only.

One.

Two.

And a loud burst, the ringing noise from that morning, hotel windows shattering, an earthquake like force shaking the world around him. The gun dropped from Dean's hand so he could hold his ears against the immense pain that went through his whole body. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, taking another breath. Another breath he hadn't planned on taking.

He opened his eyes then to see a figure hovering over him, big and brown sincere eyes, and a hand reaching out for him that looked eerily familiar. Dean let it pull him up.

He then felt himself encased in the man's arms. A deep voiced whisper in his ear said, "It's okay." Dean believed it.

Next thing he knew, he was in a different hotel, this time the sound of high tide surrounding him. The man was still with him, his hand on his shoulder. Dean turned around to look. It was the exact handprint, fitting together like a jigsaw puzzle peace.

The man put a finger over his lips to signal silence, took off his large brown trenchcoat and laid Dean down. The beds in the motel room were stripped, so Dean used the coat as a blanket. It was extremely warm out but he shivered, the coldness from the ice enveloping him still.

The man lay down beside him, taking Dean in his arms. Trying to be nice Dean attempted to lend him some of his coat, not even thinking of how weird the situation was. The man shook his head no and squeezed Dean tighter.

"You're in a lot of pain, I'm going to help you sleep, okay?"

Sleep. Something Dean had wanted since he had gotten out but hadn't come across. Dean nodded, curling up in a fetal position and closing his eyes before feeling two fingers pressed against his forehead and an instantaneous darkness washing over him.

But before it did, he had felt the faintest tickle of a whisper on his ear saying, "I love you more than you could ever know." That was a nice thought to fade away to.


End file.
